


Cliff's Edge

by bythunder, TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1940s, Accidental Incest, Angst, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Jon is a sexy innkeeper and WW2 veteran, Sansa is a runaway socialite/orphan, Somewhat fluffy but also pretty angsty psychological thriller, and not so accidental incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-01-18 03:22:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12379878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bythunder/pseuds/bythunder, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: And as if God hears his prayer, she rolls in with the storm.Or, Jon Snow finds a different home when he comes back from war.





	1. Jon

Jon had known from the start that restoring Starfall would not be an easy task. When his aunt Allyria had written to him of his mother’s death, Jon—reading her letter in a cramped, muddy barracks in France—hadn’t been sure he’d return. But after the war was done, he had no where to turn, no place to go but the only home he’s ever known. And so he is here once more, watching Beric Dondarrion flirting hopelessly with Allyria, patching leaky holes in the roof, smiling stiffly at the visitors to the inn.

Some days, it feels as though nothing’s changed after all. These are all things he’s done thousands of times before—before the war, before his dreams were filled with blood and fire.

Before his mother died.

“She was walking on the cliffs,” Allyria had explained, once he returned. His eyes were dry by this point, his stare unflinching. Jon knew it made his aunt uncomfortable, but she persisted. “She took walks often—she missed you so, Jon, and she’d look out over the water and say that you might be looking at the beaches in France, or England, or wherever you were fighting. It made her feel closer to you. She just…she slipped one day. It was raining, the wind was strong. It was an accident. An awful accident.”

Jon would love to believe it was an accident. But his mother was a smart woman. To go out in the rain and stand on a cliff—the Dayne blood was mercurial, his uncle Arthur once told him. His mother changed her mind all the time. Perhaps she had done so about living.

“You’ve got more of your father in you, boy,” his uncle had told him years ago, squinting down at Jon as they’d lugged firewood back to the inn. “That might be a blessing. The Dayne blood’s got more fire in it than we know what to do with. You’ve a bit of ice to temper it all.”

It may be he inherited his temperament from his unnamed father. He thinks he’s inherited something else from his mother, though; her loneliness. He’s never felt more alone than he does now, alone among a sea of people from town with their condolences, alone among his aunt with her sad eyes, and alone in Starfall, with the ghost of his mother at every turn.

 

* * *

 

The inn is in a state of disrepair when Jon returns. Beric has done what he can, for a man who has no stake to the land and a job besides. Allyria has almost gotten rid of the mildew his mother had written about—the one spreading through room 2B. The stove works properly now, thanks to some of Jon’s clever tinkering. Sometimes he’s glad for Starfall’s sorry state, glad that at least he has something to do while determinedly not thinking about his nightmares, his mother, or the future. He wants to truly reopen for business before summer, catch the business of all the returned soldiers with their families.

The weather is fighting him on his determination, though. The spring is a wet one, which does nothing to help the moldy shutters or the dampness that hangs in the air. If this keeps up, the inn will fall apart long before they reopen.

“Well,” Allyria says, rolling up her sleeves when Jon comes down to the kitchen. Her cheek is streaked with flour. “An idle mind is something you don’t have to worry about today, at least. The front porch’s rotting floorboard gave in. Unless you want Ned stumbling into it tonight when he brings us the groceries, you’d best cover it in some way. Do we have any boards that will do?”

Jon filches a steaming pastry from the tray that’s just come out of the oven. They’ve got two guests this morning—Theon Greyjoy and a woman who is most certainly not his wife. “We’ve got the extra boards from when I tore up the boathouse,” he says around a mouthful of butter and apple. “I’ll use those.”

It’s going to rain, Jon notes when he walks outside. So far, with their penny-pinching and all the elbow grease Jon and Beric have put into Starfall, they’ve managed to stay afloat. But their war against the rain and decay will only last so long on the funds they’ve scraped together. Jon isn’t much of a churchgoer, but he’s caught himself fervently praying for guests—and soon. They won’t last without the money.

And as if God hears his prayer, she rolls in with the storm.

The rain is falling hard against the windowsills, and Jon’s placed a pail under the one leak he hasn’t patched yet—it’s been too wet to climb the roof to get to it—when he hears a fumbling on the porch.

“Hello?” A voice calls, a voice that is quite clearly not Ned Dayne’s. It’s muffled by the door, but Jon can hear it over the rain—a woman.

The door is open. It’s always open in these parts. No one, save Jeyne Poole, ever locks her doors. Still, Jon rushes to it, nearly tripping over a knot in the carpet.

It’s a girl, soaked to the bone.

“Are you the owner of this inn?” She asks, voice shaky. Her hair is red, plastered against her face by the water.

“Yes,” he replies. “Come in. You must be freezing!”

There’s a cutting breeze coming off the ocean, and she nods, her blue eyes wide and darting around. She takes in the pail collecting stray droplets from the ceiling, the worn rugs, the streak of dirt on the yellowing wallpaper. She’s holding her coat together at the chest, shivering in the cold, when Jon finally gets the door closed—it had caught against the carpet.

“What can I do you for?” He asks, voice pleasant as he can make it. Pleasant doesn’t come easy to him these days, not since he left for war.

She’s pretty, with her wide blue eyes and the hair, wet and in disarray as it is. She seems to be making up her mind about something, her eyes darting ‘round, as though she isn’t sure she wants to be here, alone with him. Jon takes a moment to study her more closely. She’s dressed older than he thinks she truly is—her blouse is dark and matronly, her coat boxy and two sizes too big. It’s as though this is her idea of how a respectable woman ought to be dressed. In reality, it simply highlights how young she is. Not much over eighteen, he’d say.

“I—I need a room,” she stammers finally. Her eyes finally meet his. She’s pale, as though she’s seen a ghost. “Just for tonight. I was in the rain and I—” she cuts off, tightens her lips.

Jon waits, but she doesn’t continue. “Miss—”

"Stone. Alayne Stone."

Jon clears his throat. “Miss Stone, I’m afraid I need to see your identification. Are you old enough to book a room yourself?”

Her cheeks turn red. “Yes,” she insists, hands clenching the strap of her purse. “I just need a room, that’s all. Do you have vacancies? The sign up front said there were vacancies.”

He doesn’t answer her question. He’s seen girls like this before—shifty, scared. Slowly, he reaches towards his desk phone. The storm may have cut out the connection, but he figures he can at least try.

“I can call for help if you’d like, miss.”

Miss Stone shakes her head before he’s even finished speaking. “No, no, I really don’t need—please don’t call anyone. I swear I’m not bringing any trouble.” She looks hesitant, but reaches into her pocketbook. “I can pay. Look, how much is it for a night?”

The wad of cash she pulls out is thicker than Jon’s seen in a while. He can feel his eyes go big.

“Please,” she pleads when he doesn’t answer. “Its raining very hard outside and there aren’t any lights. I doubt I’d make it back to town in the dark, and I’ve come so far—” She cuts off, and Jon can’t tell if the water droplets still drying on her cheeks are from the rain outside or stubborn tears.

Jon hesitates. She’s clearly on the run from…something. He might regret this.

“We’ve got room,” he says slowly. “Just tonight?”

Alayne's eyes flutter closed for a moment, and he can see relief. Strange, this girl. He hopes he’s not getting mixed up in something, letting her stay.

“Maybe a few nights,” she corrects, her voice soft.

Jon sighs, and crosses the room. He finds the key to 1C, their nicest room.

“I won’t be staying long,” she assures him slowly, her fingers closing over the key he holds out, careful not to touch him. Her eyes don’t leave his, blue on grey locked over the shabby desk he’d put in this front room, hoping to give the place a more legitimate feel.

He watches her sign her name in the registry, loopy script that reminds him a bit of his mother’s. This girl comes from money, though the shabby coat and pocketbook scream otherwise. Her back is too straight, her skin is too clear. Her words are too crisp to be from these parts.

“What—what’s your name?” She asks, once she’s finished. Jon has the feeling she knows, that she’s known since before she stepped in the room.

“Jon Snow,” he says, clearing his throat. “I own Starfall.”

She bites her lip and looks him over, her wet eyelashes sticking together. Her hair’s quite a bit longer than the fashion, but when it falls in her face, Jon thinks it fits.

“It’s a beautiful inn,” she tells him. “I—I’ll be going now. Would you—would you be able to get my trunk from the porch? I don’t want it getting too wet.” She starts to peel out of her wet coat. The blouse beneath sticks to her frame.

“Sure,” Jon says, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll get my aunt to brew you tea while we prepare the room.”

With that, Jon makes for the door.

He feels her eyes on him the whole while.


	2. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art by TheEagleGirl

 

Starfall was nothing like Sansa imagined it.  
  
Then again, nothing ever went as she hoped. If the broken engagement and bruises hadn’t taught her that, the derelict inn she stood in did.   
  
Coming here had been a flight of fancy — a dream she’d spun into gold, a diversion so she could push on through the chaotic misery of her life. A tale of forbidden love, and a secret half brother, all hidden away by the seaside, a story like that out of a novel, found in a clutch of unopened letters she’d found in her mother’s vanity. But the reality of Starfall Inn was hardly romantic, it looked near abandoned, but a light was flickering in the window and she pressed on.   
  
It hadn’t been her plan to come here like this, rain-soaked, near midnight. But she hadn’t known where else to go when the cost of her broken betrothal was further unwanted advances. The smell of mint still tickled at her nose. She had one of Ashara’s letters in her the glove compartment of her car, by lucky chance, and the return address offered a destination. Starfall had seemed a lot more inviting when all she’d wanted to do was to put miles between her and Petyr Baelish. But there was no going back, not now. She’d driven all day, and then it was dark and she’d been caught in the storm.   
  
The inn was a shadow of what it once was. She could see that, even not knowing its former glory. The paint was chipped and faded, the wood of the porch was rotting away, but underneath it had beautiful bones. She could imagine her father here, before she was born, the summer before he married her mother, living in the shadow of his own war. It would have been easy for anyone to fall in love here, she reckons, Sansa couldn’t blame him. Besides, it’s not like her father had loved her mother, nor she him. Not then, anyway. He’d married her for the Tully money and she’d married him for his title. Winterfell, the ancient Scottish castle belonging to their family for eons, was in worse repair than Starfall, a moneypit if there ever were one, but Lord Stark had a duty to it all the same. Her father had always been a man of duty.   
  
But even if the lacklustre lobby of the Starfall Inn isn’t what Sansa had pictured, Jon Snow is exactly what she’d imagined.   
  
“Thank you,” she says placidly when he returns to the lobby with her trunk, though her heart is beating so fast that she wonders if he can hear it. Surely he must, but she can’t help it, it’s like she’s seen a ghost, so _familiar_ is this stranger’s face.   
  
Jon nods in acknowledgement. “Let me show you to your room.”   
  
A moment of uneasy silence passes between the two of them as they make their way up the creaky stairs. Sansa had long since become adept at filling such lulls in conversation, but with this man she wouldn’t even know where to start. Her curiosity would not allow her small talk, there’s just so much she wants to know, a million questions rattling about in her head. But she holds her tongue, worried that in her eagerness, she’ll betray her hand. She’s not yet sure how far to trust this stranger, even if she was certain he is her half brother. She needed to know what sort of man Jon Snow was. He might look like Father, but she knew better than to be lulled by a man’s face alone; she’d been burned far too many times for that. Mother had taught them to trust in the kindness of strangers, but Mother wasn’t here any longer, and Cersei Lannister had taught her a different lesson.

Jon clears his throat and glances her way in curiosity.   
  
“What brings you to Dorset?” he asks.

“I just fancied the sea air. London winters are hard on the lungs,” Sansa lies. It had sounded good when she’d rehearsed the line in the car, but as soon as she says it aloud, she realizes how unconvincing it is.

Jon grunts in acknowledgment. He must know she is not being honest, but he’s probably used to that. A place like this must attract all sorts of characters. If he does see through her lies, he is polite enough not to mention it. “The weather should clear by morning. Better for your lungs.”  
  
Despite her best efforts, Sansa cannot pull her gaze away from him. She forces herself to look down at the floor but she keeps him in the corner of her eye. It’s jarring how closely he resembles not only her father — _their father_ — but all of her ancestors, whose portraits hung in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Those gray eyes and that long face, his dark, unkempt hair, wet from the rain. She almost wants to reach out and touch his cheek, just to look into his eyes, but of course that would be unseemly, even if he did know who she was. Perhaps worse, somehow, if he did know.   
  
She doesn’t manage any further conversation, has no more rehearsed lies for him, nor does Jon attempt small talk. He turns the key in the lock and places her damp suitcase on the desk by the window. He hesitates for a moment before turning back to her. His eyes linger on hers for a brief moment. What does he see when he looks at me? She thinks, because it is certainly not what she sees in him, there are very few traces of Stark in her features, no hints of relation.   
  
“Breakfast is from six till nine,” he says at last, with a small smile that doesn’t reach his sad eyes. She inspects him one last time before he goes, this time focusing on the unfamiliar of him. He is lean, but not skinny; his wet shirt clings to a muscled chest.Taller than than the men of her family too. She would even say he’s handsome too, in a very different way than she's used to, even with the scars on his face and a burned hand.   
  
She doesn’t want him to go, nearly stops him before he reaches the door, to ask him at least _one_ of the questions she’d been planning her entire drive here. But her stubborn tongue remains tied, she can bring herself to do no more than thank him again for his hospitality.   
  
When he’s gone, she sits on the bed and lights a cigarette to calm her nerves. She closes her eyes and takes a long drag. Before long she’s laughing, she can’t help it, it’s just so unlike what she anticipated. Sansa had spent so long fantasizing what it would be like, to unite with her long-lost half-brother. On the long drive out of London, the scene replayed itself over and over in her mind. She could see it clearly. She’s pull up to this perfect, romantic, little cottage by the sea. Jon would be standing on porch when she arrived, he would smile at her as she got out of her car, as if he’d been expecting her all along. She would greet him smoothly, “ _Hello Jon. My name is Sansa Stark. Ned Stark was my father, and yours,”_ and she would hand him the letters from his mother. He would say something then, something like, “ _Well, I’ve always wanted a sister.”_ He would invite her inside then, and they sit by the fireplace, talking late into the evening, swapping stories about their father and their childhoods.

What she got instead was arriving late in the night, rain drenched and miserable, and when she saw him there, exactly the man she pictured him to be, Sansa had been too scared to tell him the truth. He just thought she was a some foolish girl coming out to the seaside in the winter. It was all rather pathetic, wasn't it?  
  
When she opens her eyes, she catches sight of herself in the mirror across from the bed and laughs again.   
  
So much for good first impressions. There’s a run in her stockings, a stain on her blouse, and more of her mascara has run down her cheeks than remained on her eyelashes. She looks almost as much of a mess as she feels inside. She slips off her shoes, tucking them away under the iron bed frame, and walks to the bathroom in her stockinged feet to wash her face.   
  
There’s a knock on the bedroom door. Sansa straightens her hair, a last ditch effort at presentability, before opening it. She expects it to be Jon having come back, but it’s a woman instead. She has to be more than a dozen years older than Sansa, but her beauty has yet to fade, with her dark hair tumbling in curls over her shoulder, and eyes like gemstones.   
  
“My nephew thought you’d want some tea. So you don’t catch a cold,” the woman says with an odd smile. She carries a tray of tea and biscuits and sets it on Sansa’s bedside table, though Sansa never invited the woman into her room.   
  
“That’s very kind. Thank you.”   
  
“Anything for a guest, Miss. I’m Allyria Dayne, this is my family’s place.”   
  
“A pleasure to meet you. I’m Alayne,” Sansa says, still unused to the name on the fake passport Petyr had made her. But she couldn’t be Sansa Stark here. Not yet. Sansa offers her hand and Allyria shakes it.   
  
There’s something knowing in Allyria’s violet eyes that unnerves Sansa. For a moment, Sansa wonders if Allyria knows who she is. Sansa looks almost nothing like her father, and by her estimate, Allyria would have been too young to remember the summer he’d spent here. But then, Lady Sansa Stark had been in the society pages of the Times half a dozen times just in the past year after her engagement to the heir to the Baratheon fortune had been announced.   
  
“I can’t place your accent, Alayne. Pray tell, where are you from?”   
  
“The city,” Sansa says vaguely.   
  
She’d preferred to spend her summers off from boarding school at Highgarden instead of at home. Sansa had always wanted to escape the Scottish highlands, thinking them dreary and dull. It had been quite some time since she’d returned to Scotland and with a practiced effort, she’d lost her brogue. She sounded almost like the posh Londoner she’d so wanted to become.   
  
Allyria nods, and the suspicion is gone from her face. Maybe Sansa had imagined it to begin with.   
  
“And you’re here to visit family? Or... a beau?” Allyria asks.   
  
The questions are all rather impertinent, far too intimate for having only just met. But Allyria has a friendly smile on her face. Perhaps she was just curious. They probably didn’t get a lot of visitors here, what with the war and the state of the inn and it being the off-season for tourists. Single women visitors were odder still in any case, even after the war.   
  
Then again, maybe this was just how commoners talked to each other. She wouldn't know, the only ones she'd ever known had been maids and servants, calling her milady and lowering their eyes in dereference. She's never spoken to common folk as an equal before. Even after all the upheaval in her life, the unanticipated situations she'd found herself in, Sansa had little experience with the world outside of the bubble of nobility.   
  
“All my family died during the war, I’m afraid. And I’ve got no beau. I just needed to get away for awhile.”   
  
“My condolences. My brother died fighting in France, and his wife too, she was a nurse, leaving my nephew Edric an orphan. And I lost my sister as well, Jon's mother. She couldn't cope with the losses. My other brother, Arthur, died in the last war. We know all about grief here, Miss.”   
  
“The war was hard on everyone,” Sansa replies politely. She hates playing this game with people — counting their dead, offering sympathy and regrets to strangers, only asking about others so they can talk about their own sufferings. It served no purpose, she'd learned, wallowing in sadness. One could not move forward while lingering on the past.   
  
“It was indeed,” Allyria says. She pauses, and looks Sansa over once more. “You’re more than welcome to sup with us, if you’d like. Nothing better than a home cooked meal, I always say. Regardless, nowhere’s open ‘round here during the week anyway, not during the off-season.”   
  
“I would love to,” Sansa begins, and then hesitates. It’s the perfect opportunity to get to know Jon but she isn’t ready yet. Her head had gone suddenly empty when she’d arrived and she still hadn’t recovered her bearings. She didn't trust herself not to make a misstep at dinner, to make a fool of herself or bring up trouble if she were to sit across the table from him for the length of a meal. “I’m not hungry, though, and I should like to get settled. I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, but thank you for the invitation.”   
  
“Tomorrow then?” Allyria asks, insistent but endearing. A maternal level of concern that catches Sansa off guard, but warms her heart at its sincerity.   
  
Part of her wants to say, ‘No,’ but, as jumbled as she feels now, she cannot put it off forever. This was why she was here, after all, for Jon, _for family_. She came all this way, she won’t be scared off before she even begins. So she smiles and says;   
  
“That would be lovely.”


	3. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allyria laughs at him, not unkindly, “Jon, you poor boy. The pretty ones always bring trouble with them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

Miss Stone’s not been at Starfall longer than a few hours when Jon spots her on the back porch at dawn, her face lit by the dim light of a cigarette. He doesn’t stop to say hello—he’s still a bit too far for conversation—but continues on to the coop. The chickens are dry thanks to the roof-patching Beric had installed while Jon had been away at war, and they peck hungrily at the corn he sprinkles about. Six of them have given eggs, and Jon’s already imagining breakfast when his stomach rumbles.

The goat’s next, though she’s shivering a bit from the damp air. By the time Jon makes his way back to the inn, the sky’s filled with cold blue light, and Miss Stone is gone.

“What do you make of our guest?” Allyria asks him, once he’s stepped into the kitchen. She’s already sliding the biscuits into the oven, and takes the basket from him.

“Alayne Stone?” Jon asks, as though there are any other guests to be talking about. “She seemed troubled last night. I do hope she doesn’t bring any of that trouble along with her.”

Allyria laughs at him, not unkindly, “Jon, you poor boy. The pretty ones always bring trouble with them.”

 

  
It’s Allyria’s machinations, Jon supposes, that brings Alayne Stone to him with his lunch later in the day. His aunt has never been subtle.

“Your aunt asked me to bring you some food,” she informs him hesitantly. Jon can hardly blame the wariness in her eyes. He’s hunched over the rotting floorboards of the front porch, sweat on his face and dirt on his knuckles. Alayne, with her posh accent and her ramrod-straight spine, most probably has little to do with men like Jon.

He wipes his forehead with a rough rag and straightens in an attempt to look more dignified, although he can’t feel his left leg when he stands too quickly. “Thank you,” he says, trying for a smile. The tray Alayne’s handing him has food enough for two, Jon notices. He represses the urge to roll his eyes.

She hovers uncertainly until Jon turns to her and asks, “Would you join me? My aunt seems to have packed enough for both of us.”

“Ah,” she says, smiling softly—though it does not quite reach her eyes. “Yes. How thoughtful of her.”

In the light, with her hair done up nicely and her clothes dry, Alayne is lovely. She’s been beautiful the night before—devastatingly so, Jon admits to himself, but in a desperate, harried way. Today, the only word Jon can settle on is _lovely_ , with the clear blue of her eyes a near perfect match for the sky and her hands folded so carefully in the lap of her checked dress.

He clears his throat. “Tea? Here, Allyria’s set aside two glasses for us.”

“Yes, please,” she says, her voice bright. It rings false to Jon, this cheery image she’s projecting. Perhaps it is because she’d looked so out of order at check-in last night, and this persona is her way of trying to erase Jon’s first impression. He wishes she wouldn’t.

“Saw you up this morning,” Jon says, handing her the cup. “Was your room not comfortable? Is there something you need changed, Miss Stone?”

“Oh, no,” she replies. “The room was fine. I just haven’t slept very well these past few years.”

“The war?” Jon asks, and cuts into the crust of the meat pie Allyria made. The smell is heavenly, and even Alayne closes her eyes for a moment in appreciation.

“Yes,” she tells him. “To be quite honest, Mr. Snow, I’ve not been myself since it ended.”

Jon smiles at her. “You and the whole country, Miss Stone.”

Alayne looks away. “That doesn’t seem true to me,” she tells him. “Perhaps it is here, in the country. So many men here were off fighting in the thick of it. But elsewhere it seems like the war never happened. No, not that it did not happen—that it did, but everyone is willfully ignoring it. Women organize sewing circles and talk about their babies and men go off to their clubs and speak of the Germans and reparations. And yet the world goes on. Life is expected to go on.” She laughs, self-conscious and almost bitter. “It’s quite unfair to those whose lives did not go on.”

Jon feels sympathy creeping up on him. “Who did you lose?”

Alayne twists her hands. “It would be both faster and easier, Mr. Snow, to tell you who I didn’t lose.” Her eyes meet his.

Jon looks away after a moment. “I understand,” he says softly. “I lost much as well. Friends in the army, my mother, my—” he stops. He has gone nearly two days without lingering on Ygritte. He cannot botch that streak now. “No one has forgotten,” he continues. “At least, not here. But it is easier to not revisit those hard times. To pretend as though life has gone on.”

Alayne scoffs softly, and picks at her food. “If you never confront the source of your troubles,” she tells him, “you will never heal.” She takes a bite, delicate and ladylike and out of place among Starfall’s decaying glory. “My father used to say that,” Sansa says, sneaking a look at Jon. “Did—did your father pass in the war as well?”

Jon shakes his head. “I don’t know, exactly. My mother would never speak about him. I doubt she ever told him about me. If she did, she kept it from me.”

Jon wonders how Alayne will react. She’s upper class, if not a lady of some sort. A child born of wedlock is not looked favorably upon in any circles—especially not those.

She simply studies Jon for another moment and nods.

 

  
“I’ve invited Alayne to join us for supper,” Allyria tells Jon. “Beric is staying after he finishes with the mold in 2B. He’s brought some wine from the village.”

“Allyria,” Jon warns. “Miss Stone is a guest. I’m not so desperate for company that I’ll run after every woman in distress that arrives here.”

“Pity,” Allyria says, frowning at him. “I’d hate it if you ended up alone—”

“Like my mother?” Jon finishes, his temper flaring. “Like you? Like Arthur? Go on, Allyria. Finish what you wanted to say.”

Allyria presses her lips together. “The girl is nice. I spoke with her at length today, and she even offered to help about the kitchen. Poor thing knows nothing about cooking, so it was a useless suggestion, but at least she tried.” Softer, Allyria lays a hand on Jon’s arm. “Is it so bad for me to want you to pursue a nice girl?”

Jon scoffs and begins to put out another two place settings. “A nice girl who’s most probably on the run,” he insists. “You didn’t see her when she came in, Allyria. I’m sure settling down with an impoverished innkeep is the last thing on her mind right. Let it be. Let her be. I’ll not have you driving out our only guest because you’ve decided to matchmake.”

Allyria raises a brow at him. “We’ll see,” she says. “I hear her now. She’s on the stairs.”

The first thing Jon thinks is that perhaps Alayne has overdressed. Her dress is pretty—nicer than any he’s seen in some time, probably since he was in London after the war. The green sets off the red of her hair, which is expertly arranged about her face.

Jon feels absurd in his work clothes next to such finery—and it isn’t just the dress, it’s _her_. Now that the swelling of her eyes has finally gone down, Jon can see the maturity in them. Alayne Stone has seen the ugly side of life, of that Jon is certain, and no pretty dresses or fancy parties would cover that up ever again.

“Good evening,” Allyria greets when Jon says nothing. She ushers Alayne into the dining room. “How was your bath, dear? Warm enough, I hope?”

“Quite, thank you,” Alayne says, averting her eyes and smiling at Allyria. “You were right, the water chased away that last bit of chill.”

“Off course I was right,” Allyria tuts, and guides Sansa to her seat. “Now I’ll just make you a spot of ginger tea—you were soaked last night, we don’t want you catching cold. Do you want a splash of brandy in it, Miss Stone?”

“I—suppose so?” Alayne says, though it sounds more like a question.

Jon assures her, “My aunt’s brandy can cure most ills, Miss Stone. You’re in good hands.”

“I’m not ill,” Alayne protests weakly, “just cold.”

“The breeze off the cliff never lets it get truly warm around Starfall until midsummer,” Beric says from the doorway. He, at least, has washed up. Jon feels the dirt under his nails acutely. Somehow, without his knowledge, supper tonight has turned into an affair. Even Allyria is dressed in a clean frock. Jon has changed out of his work shirt, so he doesn’t look too shabby, but again he can feel his aunt’s hand in this.

“Do you get many visitors in the summer?” Alayne asks. “Ms. Dayne, may I help in some way...?”

Allyria laughs warmly and says, “Don’t you worry, dear—Jon will help me serve the food.”

Jon starts to set out the bread, still warm from the oven. “We get a good amount, most years. Not many during the war,” he confesses. “The government displaced a few children here for a few months during the Blitz, but most people haven’t been on holiday in a few years.”

Beric takes the platter of chicken from Allyria and adds, “We’re hoping that this summer that will change, aren’t we Jon?”

Jon nods. “Yes. Especially now that we’re effecting repairs. Starfall’s fallen on some hard times.”

Alayne watches them all sit. “It’s a beautiful inn,” she says. “I can see how it’s in a bit of disrepair, but it seems almost timeless.”

“My sister used to feel the same way,” Allyria says. “She reckoned that was the cause of it’s success years ago, though an inn this old never runs too smoothly. The beauty of Starfall and the cliffs lures people in.”

“You say that as if we’ve entrapped people,” Jon jokes. Alayne smiles at him.

 

 

  
“You fool,” Allyria says. “That girl couldn’t take her eyes off you all night.”

Jon ought to protest, but he’s warm from the port Beric had poured for him and full from Allyria’s cooking—happy and full, for once.

“What’s more,” his aunt continues, handing him the soapy dishes to rinse. “You couldn’t stop looking at her either.”

“She’s barely been here longer than a day,” Jon reminds his aunt.

“And she said she’d be gone by tonight,” Allyria retorts. “But she isn’t, is she? Jon, my love, you’ve got to take control of the things around you, not just let them happen.”

A response is on the tip of Jon’s tongue. Allyria has never taken control of love—Beric pines away and the two of them are both too scared to act on their feelings. _Who are you to tell me this?_ He wants to ask.

But he’s _happy_ tonight, by god. He’s determined to not let his dark thoughts cloud his mind. So he bites his tongue.

The dark thoughts come anyhow, when Jon’s alone and climbing the stairs. _You’re mine, and I’m yours_ , Ygritte’s voice echoes, and he can see her so clearly in his mind’s eye—down to the freckle and the starch white of her nurse’s apron, the bloody smear at her chest. Gunfire rings in his ear, so vivid that Jon actually has to clutch at the banister and remind himself that he’s home, he’s in Starfall, he’s safe.

Would it be so awful? Jon wonders. Companionship, the touch of another, to chase away the acute loneliness Jon’s felt since he got Allyria’s letter last summer telling him his mother was dead.

He’s drunk, he decides, and sad and alone. Alayne is a sweet girl, he’s seen that already, but a sweet girl with no interest in him.

Jon is so deep in his thoughts he barely hears the knocking at his door. It’s only after he’s pulled down his suspenders and begun to untuck his shirt that he hears the second knock—soft and hesitant.

He’s not expecting Alayne when he swings the door open. But there she is, biting her lip and looking up at him through her lashes.

“Miss Stone—” Jon starts, mouth dry. Lord, she’s beautiful.

“Please,” she says, twisting her hands. She looks nervous. “Call me S—call me Alayne.”

“Alayne,” Jon repeats, testing the word out. “Is there—is something wrong? Do you need something?”

Her eyes dart about the hall. “May I come in?”

Jon is too stunned to move, so Alayne simply pushes around him, closes the door behind her.

This—this can only mean one thing, can’t it? That Allyria wasn’t being fanciful, that Alayne really was staring at him earlier at dinner. Jon should kick her out of his room. He should be a gentleman, leave if she won’t. But he can’t move.

Alayne looks nervous, playing with the ends of her hair as she surveys the room. Jon’s bed is made, his room sparse and neat—a habit he’d picked up in the army. The wallpaper is curling at the edges, yellowing in some areas, and he’s got a bucket half-full with water from a leak he’s yet to patch up. Jon feels a stab of self-consciousness, but then Alayne turns to him.

“Mr. Snow, I—”

“Jon,” he corrects softly.

Alayne’s mouth twitches, then smooths. “Jon,” she echoes. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

She’s so _close_ , so lovely. Jon can feel the burning of her palm where she’s laid it against his forearm. He can see every freckle, the blue of her eyes on his.

Jon clears his throat. “I—think I know,” he starts. _You’ve got to take control of the things around you._ He’s tired of being alone. Maybe, for a little while, he doesn’t have to be. Before he can doubt himself, Jon lowers his head and kisses her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments and reviews! :P


	4. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a new co-author on board, and theaglegirl and I decided some things about this story needed to be reworked, so starting here at chapter four, things have been rewritten. Thanks for understanding and please stick around, because we have a great story planned!

He kisses her. And goodness, but it must’ve been too long since she’s been kissed,  _ properly _ kissed, that she doesn’t push him away immediately. She had come to his room with an intention, to settle the matter she came here to settle, but when he hand touches her cheek, the same instant his tongue makes a tenuous pass at her lips, she forgets all of that. Her hands come to his hips, fist in the tails of his shirt. Sansa pulls him closer, her lips part for his as she lets out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. 

Affirmed by her response, Jon’s hand traces from her cheek, strokes past her ear, before coming to rest, tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck. He holds her like a lover, though not like any lover she’s ever known before. Joff would’ve been pulling on her hair by this point, insistent and displeased all at once, while Petyr… No, better not to think of Petyr’s kisses now. Better not to think of anything from the life of Sansa Stark in this moment, Sansa would only ruin this. But Alayne near purrs under Jon’s soft affections and she wants nothing more than to bask in it, for just a moment longer…  

“Alayne,” Jon’s voice is barely more than a rasp. “I shouldn’t want to kiss you near as much as I do.”

“Nor I you,” she laughs in return, though she quickly cuts herself short. Because… while Jon is being a gentleman about it, she is not at all being a lady. She  _ shouldn’t _ want to kiss him as much as she does, and she knows the very reason why not. Poor Jon is innocent in this, but Sansa knows the truth. She shouldn’t have allowed this to happen. 

She pulls her hands from him, takes a half-step back. Jon follows her movement, but she puts a hand on his chest, keeping him at bay. “I shouldn’t— I shouldn’t have come here.” 

Jon’s brow furrows in confusion, the sudden sharp shift in her behavior has not gone unnoticed. “I do apologize, Miss Stone. I didn’t mean anything improper.”

“It’s not that,” Sansa is quick to reassure him. “The kiss was very nice. But—”

“But what?”

Sansa feels the weight of the letters in the pocket of her coat, just a few piece of paper, yet it now feels as though she weighted down with stones. Sins were never supposed to be easy to bear, and she just keeps adding more and more to her load, it seems. It was with the intention of telling Jon the truth that she had called upon him tonight, but how could she tell him that truth now?  _ What would he have done in my place?  _ Sansa thinks. _ Had he known he was my brother and I the one in the dark, would he have told me or succumbed to his lusts regardless?  _ She has an inkling that he would do the decent thing, the honest thing, but that may just be the way he looks at her with eyes so much like her late father's, or perhaps it's merely her conscience screaming at her from where it’s been buried for far too long.

“But I only came to ask if there were any spare blankets,” she fibs. “There's a terrible draft in my room.”

“Oh.” A flush blossoms across his face, he ducks his head to hide it, but not before Sansa can see. It's quite charming. “Anything you need, Alayne.” He leads her down the hall and shows her the linen closet. “Take as many as you need. I'll take of that draft first thing tomorrow.” Jon bundles a thick, well-worn quilt into her arms.

“Thank you again.” Sansa hugs the blanket to her chest and purses her lips. She wants to say so much more to him, but what?  _ You're my half brother _ or  _ kiss me again _ ? The thought of that ought to make her sick, shouldn't it? Maybe she  _ is _ sick. But Jon's touch felt… so nice. She shakes the thought from her head, she can't linger on that now. Sansa bids Jon goodnight and hurries back to her room, buries herself underneath her blankets.

She remembers once, a very long time ago, her brother Bran creeping into her room. They had gone to see a film, she can't recall which, but she does remember there had been a monster in it. Bran was still so small then, he hadn't yet learned that monsters weren't real - well, not the monsters that haunted the cinemas anyway. Bran had crawled into her bed and confessed with all the sincerity of one so young that he was frightened the monster would come for him in the night. Sansa held him close that night and wrapped him up tight and told him,  _ “No monster can touch you if you're under your covers.” _

She remembers that now as she wraps the quilt about herself, smelling vaguely of mothballs and a bit like sea salt, and thinks how blankets cannot save her if the monster is under them with her, deep inside her heart. It's wrong, she knows it wrong what she feels for Jon. She shouldn't note how handsome he is, she'd always gagged when her friends cooed over Robb's features. It shouldn't prick her ears every time he says her name, even if it is a false one. The memory of his hand at her cheek sets her skin aflame, and that kiss… she ought to be horrified that her brother kissed her, that she  _ enjoyed _ it, yet the only thing that horrifies her is that it doesn't bother her at all.

She should leave, tonight,  _ now _ . She could go back to London, or perhaps back to Scotland. She could take this new passport of hers and all the money she has on hand and disappear. She could go to France or America, anywhere. Jon never has to know who she was. Sansa launches herself out of bed, and began throwing her things in her trunk, not that she had unpacked much since she arrived. It’s heavy but she thinks she can manage to get it down to her car by herself, hopefully without waking the household. She’s committed to running, she is ready to go, but when she pulls on her coat, she feels the letters. From Jon’s mother to her father. Sansa slips her hand into her pocket and runs her fingers over the worn edges, the sstring of twine binding them together. No matter how far she runs from Jon, she can’t escape what she’s done, her feelings, this pit in her heart. 

She can’t ever tell him the truth, not now. But why should that mean she has to go? Sansa had travelled all this way, just to see Jon, to know him. And it wasn’t because he was her brother. It was a family she was chasing. With her parents long dead and her siblings all missing, casualties of war more likely than not, she was alone in the world. She was so very tired of being alone. She thinks how welcoming Allyria has been, how kind Beric is, and Jon… 

Sansa pulls the letters from her coat pocket, the only evidence in the world of her sin. She traces her fingers of the delicate script, her father’s name in his mother’s hand, and knows no one else must ever see these. She opens her trunk and retrieves one of her thick woolen socks and stuffs the letters inside. She will remember to take care of them for good in the morning, but for now, wrapped in a sock and buried under her clothes in the bottom dresser drawer will be plenty hidden enough. 

 

* * *

 

Jon is waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs as she comes down for breakfast the next morning. It’s rather sweet, how nervous he looks, his hands clasped behind his back, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Arya used to do something like that, whenever she got in trouble with Mother and Father, chewing on her bottom lip till it cracked as she awaited a scolding. 

But that’s stupid, Alayne thinks, pausing to clear her head. She’s never known a girl named Arya. That was someone else, in another life. She would have to mind that, thoughts like that had no place in the life she’s chosen. “Good morning, Jon.”

He nods his head to her. “Alayne. Did you sleep well? If that draft was any bother—”

“I slept very well,” she lies. “The quilt did just the trick, thank you.”

Jon nods again. His eyes flit between her face and his toes, his nerves getting the better of him. Alayne is sure she knows the reason for this, but she waits for him to come to it on his own.  

“I want to apologize for my behavior last night,” he says after a moment. “I'd indulged too much at dinner, not that drink is any excuse for a man to behave like a beast—”

“You weren't a beast, Jon. You took me back surprise, is all.”

“Are you sure? Alayne… I might not know much about you yet, but I do know that you're… you're posh. I can't be much like any other man who's courted you before.”

“You're right about that,” she says, placing her hands on his shoulders. Deep in her heart, she says farewell to Sansa Stark, puts that poor wretched girl in a cage. There is no room for both Sansa and Alayne, and she has made her choice. Sansa’s life would never allow her to stay here, there were people who would be looking for her, bad people, Lannisters and Mr. Baelish. She had been happy as a girl, but happiness was in the past for Sansa. Her future could only be miserable. Alayne, though,  _ she _ could be happy, here with Jon.  “You're nothing like them.”

She kisses him and in doing so, kisses Sansa Stark goodbye.


End file.
